The Greek's Pregnant Bride. Michelle Smart

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      ‘Man, you know I wouldn’t go there. I’d never do that to Rocco— Where are you going?’ he added when Christian got up from his stool and made to leave.

      ‘To get some air.’

      ‘You not feeling well?’ Stefan was looking at him closely.

      ‘It’s been a busy time. I’m probably jet-lagged. Get another round in—I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

      Instead of going outside, Christian went to the restroom and splashed cold water on his face.

      He’d been a paper thickness away from punching Zayed.

      Theos, he needed to get a grip on himself.

      This was his guilt and his problem. No one else’s.

      Back in the ballroom his eyes automatically sought Alessandra out. As he found her, she turned her head in his direction, as if some sixth sense told her he was there. Quickly she turned away.

      He thought he was doing a good job of hiding his guilt-ridden inner turmoil. After that one close call of almost punching one of his oldest and closest friends for an innocuous remark, he joined in with the celebration they were there for, drinking, laughing and horsing about, being the same old Christian he always was when with them.

      Except, every time he looked, he found Alessandra’s gaze upon him. Their eyes would meet for a fraction of a second before jerking away. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, though, dancing with anyone who cared to ask, at one point stealing Olivia from Rocco and waltzing her around the floor to screams of delight.

      Only when the bride and groom, their hands clenched tightly together, left to head off to their secret honeymoon destination did Christian determine his duty to have been done.

      Exchanging bear hugs with Zayed and Stefan, who called him every laughably demeaning name under the sun for retiring to bed so early, he strode out of the ballroom, unable to resist one last glance at Alessandra. For once, she wasn’t looking at him.

      He was about to climb the stairs to the sleeping quarters when he heard his name called.

      Stefan approached him and pulled him into another embrace. ‘You are playing with fire, my friend,’ he said into his ear.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘Sure you do.’ He pulled back a little and brought his hands up to Christian’s face, slapping both his cheeks lightly. ‘You have to end it. Now.’

      Christian’s chest compressed. He couldn’t lie to his friend. ‘It was over before it started.’

      ‘Good. Keep it that way. For all our sakes.’

      * * *

      Alessandra took a deep breath and knocked on the door. The party was still going strong, a DJ having replaced the band, music pounding through the walls. There were revellers all over the villa but thankfully this wing was quiet and devoid of people.

      She waited a few moments before knocking again, louder.

      Unless Christian had left without telling anyone, he was in there. The dim light seeping under the door testified to this. She’d casually asked Stefan and Zayed where their fellow musketeer had escaped to. She could only hope she’d imagined the suspicious but pitying look in Stefan’s eyes when he’d told her Christian had gone to bed.

      Please, God, let him be alone in there.

      What were the chances?

      She’d been nothing special, just another notch on a bedpost crammed with notches.

      Christian Markos travelled with a trail of broken hearts attached to him ranging from Hong Kong to London. Some sold their stories to the tabloids, tales of short-lived lust before being discarded. Some spoke with bitterness. Most spoke with longing. Most wanted him to break their hearts all over again.

      It took an age before the handle turned and the door opened.

      Christian stood clad in a pair of jeans. And nothing else.

      He blinked narrowing eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I need to talk to you. Can I come in?’

      His bronzed throat rose. ‘That’s not a good idea.’

      ‘It’s important.’

      His firm lips, usually quirked in an easy smile, clamped together. He shifted past her, looking both directions down the wide corridor before ushering her in and swiftly closing the door.

      His room was tidy, his tuxedo hanging neatly on the door of the wardrobe. The bed was rumpled; a tablet was on the bedside table next to a half-full bottle of bourbon and an empty glass.

      ‘Are you drunk?’ she challenged. This was a conversation she needed to have when he was sober.

      ‘No.’ He strode to the window and closed the heavy curtains. ‘Believe me, I’ve been trying to reach that state.’

      If only she were in a position to reach that state herself.

      ‘Today went well,’ she said, sitting gingerly on the corner chair. She could really do with a shot of that bourbon. It would make what was coming next easier to cope with, of that she was certain. ‘Rocco and Liv looked really happy.’

      Their obvious happiness had had the dual effect of making her heart lighten for her brother’s sake and sink at the knowledge it was something she could never have for herself.

      Christian propped himself against the wall by the window and crossed his arms over his broad chest. She hadn’t really had the opportunity to study his torso in her apartment, and now she could look at it properly she felt the heat she’d experienced that night bloom anew.

      Years of rowing and track had honed his physique, his form strong and athletic, his shoulders broad. Fine hair dusted across his bronzed chest and she felt an almost unbearable compulsion to hurtle herself into his arms and take solace in his strength.

      Making love to him had been an experience she would never forget. The single best experience of her life.

      Try as she had to expel the memories from her head, they’d stayed with her, tantalising her, taunting her with the knowledge it was an experience that could never be repeated.

      The simple remembrance of his smooth skin flush against her nakedness made her feel as if her insides were being liquidised.

      ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ he asked, cutting the preamble and pulling her back to the present. While he wasn’t being unfriendly, there was none of the easy-going Christian she knew. She didn’t have to be psychic to know he wanted her gone from his room.

      His regret and self-loathing were obvious.

      Her heart hammered beneath her ribs, her stomach roiling with nerves that threatened to overwhelm her.

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